


The Guy Who Judges a Book by its Cover

by featherflairs, Sickdaysurfer



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anxiety Attacks, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Cinnybun Bucky Barnes, Dad!Steve, Gypsy, Kidfic, M/M, PTSD, Past Peggy, Sarah Rogers is a Good Wingman, Soldier PTSD, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Suicide mention, Veteran!Bucky, Vulture Moms, War flashbacks, librarian!bucky, recovery!bucky, service dog, spitfire Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-11-09 00:22:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17991344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/featherflairs/pseuds/featherflairs, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sickdaysurfer/pseuds/Sickdaysurfer
Summary: Single Dad Steve Rogers lives with his mother - retired nurse Sarah Rogers, and four year old daughter, Evangeline Margaret. Support for Evangeline comes in the form of bi-weekly deposits into a joint account from Peggy Carter, and Steve tries to tell himself that his heart doesn’t ache each time the bank alerts ping on his phone.Enter war vet Bucky Barnes with a few ghosts of his own and his faithful therapy dog Gypsy, who bide their days working at the local Library. After months of hearing about Sara’s successful son, “an accountant,” she always gushes; Bucky passes him off as some flaky big-city big shot.But, when Steve finally attends story hour with the girls, both he and Bucky get far more than they bargained for.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Started this hoping for a big long beastie but I've learned the hard way that the holidays are not the time for a Bang for me and thus it is a little fluffy thing and everyone turns out optimistic and happy. Real life knocked me on my butt so I just wanted my fave cinnybuns to eat good food and feel loved. 
> 
> Featuring art by the amazingly patient and ever talented @ohstars who captured my vision of a wild red-haired girl who steals the hearts of our best guys and my real-life pup Gypsy.

5:00 AM 

Steven Grant Rogers wakes up to a stiff neck and the sensation of something heavy sprawled across his chest. A curtain of wild, curly red hair tickles his face and something wet - yeah, that’s drool - is soaking through his shirt. His cell phone, perched haphazardly on its charger near the edge of the bedside table, is blaring PinkFong’s Baby Shark. 

_Baby shark, doo doo doo doo doo, baby shark, doo doo doo doo doo, baby-_

Steve manages to silence it, but only just before it falls onto the floor. Great. 

“Eve…” He groans. 

His mouth tastes like something died in it and he’s reminded that he passed out without brushing his teeth. Steve tries his best to push Evangeline off, but four years worth of stubbornness just whines and snuggles closer to him. 

Once he’s managed to extract himself after several minutes, Steve schlepps into the bathroom and makes certain to close the door behind him. 

Ugh, he really needs a haircut. 

He hasn’t managed to stop by _Procuts_ for a few months, now, and long strands fall forward as he leans down to wash his face. It’s almost long enough to reach his shoulders, and when he looks in the mirror, his father’s face stares back at him; secretly delighted. He only ever knew the man from photos and to see their likeness even after all these years settles him in a way he never expected. 

But for now, he rubs some moisturizer onto his face - _it’s for protection, sweetheart, you don’t want to get age spots! His mother’s voice pipes up in his mind, besides, it will help you attract the girls!_ \- and runs a hand through his hair to get it out of his eyes. It won’t stay that way, but it’s a short relief while he rifles through his closet. 

Like most days during a Cape Cod winter, Steve winds up shrugging into a pair of jeans, plain t-shirt, and a thin, ‘professional’ sweater. It’s the same wardrobe he’s trusted for years, really, and no one at the office ever seems to notice it’s all the same pieces, varied by color. As he pulls his shoes on - modern, grey ‘office casual’ things, he thinks of the new girl at the office, Rachel - fresh out of college with a completely different outfit every day. 

“I don’t like to wear two things that are similar in the same week,” she explained one day, “and I try not to repeat the same outfit more than once a month.” 

She’s twenty-two, full of excitement and always shows up early. Steve has decided he likes her. 

When he starts to look for his phone laying on the floor by the bed, he hears a tiny, rough voice. 

“Daddy?” 

A pair of wide green eyes framed by a mane of untamable curls are peering down at him when he looks up. 

“Eve,” he greets his daughter. He’s still blindly groping around the floor as she blinks sleepily at him. “Good morning.”

But Evangeline offers nothing aside from a grunt, rolling back into bed and tugging the blankets around herself. When Steve feels the edge of the cell phone against his fingertips, hesnatches it up just as his snoozed alarm starts to blare the song again. 

He rights himself and can’t help the small smile that makes its way onto his face as he looks at Evangeline in the dim morning light. She’s back to snuggling tight into the bed, hair spread out around her, little mouth parted in a faint snore. 

To keep himself from sneaking back into bed with his daughter, Steve rakes a hand through his hair and pads down the hallway. 

His mother’s bedroom is still dark, but she’ll get up and join him soon. 

For now, he makes his way to the kitchen and gets to work on the coffee, scooping and filling and pressing buttons on the machine. It’s an old thing, but it somehow manages to make the hottest coffee Steve has ever come across. Anything less than scalding just won’t do the job for him. 

When he moves to retrieve the newspaper from the front door, the crisp February air nearly steals his breath. He has to take a quick moment and double-check Evangeline’s supplies by the front door he’d laid out the night before: winter coat, sturdy boots, chunky mittens, and a hat shaped like a sea monster, check.

Earlier that year Steve’s mother had implored Evangeline to choose a hat for the winter, and with all of her hair, they’d opted for an adult-size. When she’d spotted the intricately knitted thing at a craft show before Christmas, Eve’d nearly burst into tears in delight and neither Sarah nor Steve had the heart to tell her she’d have to wait until Christmas, thus Evangeline had worn the hat around the rest of the fair that day. 

Sarah had made her matching pair of mittens for Christmas that pulled back and fastened with a button to become fingerless gloves. She’d even gone the extra mile to line the mittens and the hat itself with a thick, comfortable fleece.

Steve sets the newspaper on the table for his mother when she rises, moving on to portioning butternut squash soup into Pyrex containers for everyone's lunches, placing two containers into his own lunch before slicing up the last of Sunday’s leftover focaccia bread. 

For Evangeline, Steve pours the soup expertly into a unique bottle with a large straw. He makes sure to select only centerpieces from the bread - none of the crunchy, delicious crust; that he saves for himself and his mother. 

Coconut milk yogurt finds itself alongside Evangeline’s drinkable soup and soft bread, as well as a nature valley granola bar: easily the messiest thing to send along with a preschooler. But, as one of the items on Evangeline’s “Okayed Texture” lists, the granola bars find themselves nestled alongside other limited foods she’ll eat more often than not. 

Considering for a moment, as the coffee brews, his daughter’s texture aversions, Steve supposes he should count himself blessed.There are many other behaviors that could be far worse. Plus, she’s always favored the soft, mushy textures, or the most crunch - hence granola bars. Those textures have been easy enough for Steve to work with. At the start, his mother had been the one to do most of the cooking, but Steve slowly caught on and, thanks to google, had become a pro at doctoring up pureed soups while packing in as many vitamins and minerals as humanly possible. 

As a result, Evangeline’s texture aversions, coupled with her allergy to dairy, had the little family eating the healthiest they’d ever been. After a hefty adjustment period, Steve now handles most of the cooking and he truly doesn’t mind. It feels good to provide for them. 

Almost as an afterthought, Steve shoves some chopped carrots in Evangeline’s lunchbox. If she’s feeling adventurous she may want to dip the carrots - one of her ‘foods to work on’ - while waiting for her preschool teachers to heat up her soup.

It’s all a scientific process with her food requirements coupled along with therapy once a month. They visit Mrs. Katherine, a Speech-Language Pathologist specializing in feeding & swallowing disorders, armed with a detailed list of all the foods they’d conquered that month. There are checkmarks, stars, and little poop-face stickers. It’s the one Friday Steve takes as a half day in order to attend the sessions. 

Secretly, he’d been picking Katherine’s brain for years about how exactly one winds up in such a profession, but everyday bills and security have him buying cheap, used Speech Pathology textbooks on Amazon, piled onto his bedside table in an effort to learn more about his daughter. But more often than not he’s fallen asleep out of exhaustion before he finishes a chapter. 

Speaking of exhaustion… 

Steve jumps when the coffee maker beeps at him, stirred from daydreaming as he finishes shoving fruit into his own packed lunch. He hears his mother shuffling down the hall to join him at the table as he finishes pouring out two cups of coffee. 

“Morning,” he greets her with a steaming cup of coffee and a kiss on the cheek. 

“Good morning, sweetheart.” 

Always quiet and adept at caring, Sarah Rogers slides into her seat at the kitchen table and the scene stabs at Steve’s heart. 

Thanks to his father’s posthumous military benefits and a career during the golden age of healthcare, Sarah is now retired, but she still keeps plenty active with Evangeline. However, Steve can still see the longing in her eyes as she casts her gaze out the bay window overlooking their sleepy little neighborhood. 

He knows that caring for Evangeline has hindered her exploring the next steps and adventures of life; that she keeps her eyes trained curiously on each day’s ‘Want Ads’ while waiting for inspiration to strike. 

“I’ve got to stay late tonight,” Steve’s words get stuck in his throat, so he stops to clear it and take a sip of coffee; gather up his lunch and put it in an insulated grocery bag he’s been using for years. “Shouldn’t be too long though, only ‘til 5.” 

“I hope they’re paying you overtime for that extra hour,” Sarah clucks behind her coffee cup. 

“They are, I promise.” Steve assures her with a kiss to her hair. “It’s just that Ana’s got the meeting for her mother’s nursing home. She’s tried to get it moved but couldn’t.” 

“Well,” Sarah shakes her head. “You tell Ana that I’m thinking of her, and if she ever has any questions just to give me a call, alright? It’s never fun when someone decides to put their parents in a home, and today those corporations just want the money, they don’t give a rat’s a-” 

“Okay, mom,” Steve cuts her off before she picks up too much speed. He jingles his keys and leans in to kiss her hair one more time. “I’ll let her know, promise. Love you.” 

“I love you too, sweetheart.” There’s a bit of a laugh in Sara’s voice put she pats his cheek anyways. 

 

When Steve pulls into the parking lot at work, most of the technicians are already there, arriving 6am daily- just like him. But Steve enters through the office doors rather than the warehouse, booting up his computer and settling in to sort through the overnight voicemails at his desk. 

Steve doesn’t mind the hour alone at the front. Natasha, the small company’s HR specialist, usually comes in around the same time so they’re not really alone, but there are no phone calls coming through to distract him and that’s what really matters. 

Today, though, Natasha’s cubicle is empty when Steve arrives.

Despite the fact that it’s February and it’s blistering cold outside, overnight calls are minimal and customers’ voicemails are polite, a truly rare occurrence. It allows Steve to get a head start matching packing slips and invoices so by the time the girls in dispatch come through the door Steve’s already organized their overnight calls into neat piles and downed the coffee he’d brought with him. 

No matter, though - when Natasha comes strolling through the door just before 7 she sets a paper cup on Steve’s desk. The coffee is from his favorite shop just down the road; blistering hot and almost too sweet - just how he likes it. Steve removes one of the soup containers from his thermal bag and sets it beside the coffee: an even exchange. 

Natasha shoots Steve a wink before she shashays to her desk and picks up her phone to stop the call forwarding service and settle in for the day.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky tries to roll his shoulder to get his backpack strap back but the prosthetic is sluggish and doesn’t respond fast enough. The pack slips and he manages to stick his foot out in time to soften the impact. It’s a jarring sound on the cement steps and makes him wince, heat flushing his face. His right palm has started to sweat and he’s losing his grip on his coffee tumbler. His keys are jingling, shaking in his hand. Gypsy takes a step closer, ready to lean against Bucky and ground him before - 
> 
> “Bucky?” 
> 
> It’s a small voice, soft and familiar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sweet, sweet cinnybun & my best girl Gypsy.

7:00 AM

James “Bucky” Barnes rolls out of bed Friday morning to the sound of a military bugle blaring from across the room. 

He blearily manages to shuffle his feet into slippers and gropes around for the phone, the tin-can sound even more offensive in the dim light filtering through his windows. 

He sighs when he finally manages to get the phone silent. 

It’s a grating and stupid alarm, but it manages to get him out of bed every day. Especially when he remembers to leave the phone on his dresser across the room, far from slapping range in bed, which doesn’t happen as much as he’d like. His millennial-esque technology dependency is an illness he’s trying best to overcome. 

Dragging a hand over rough stubble, Bucky glances out his bedroom window to asses the sky: thick, foreboding clouds loom overhead; promising rain. On a Friday it’s one of the better things Bucky could hope for. That meant Story Hour would be busy. 

A wet cold nose pressed into the back of his calf, startling Bucky out of the clouds. When he turns his head, there’s Gypsy: her wide green eyes staring up at him with a white-tipped tail wagging expectantly. 

Mornings like this make Bucky stop in his tracks to admire her: young, vibrant, loyal. 

At full height, her tall ears brush beside his thigh when she leans against him, grounding him to the present. Her russet colored fur is eye-catching, white blooming on her chest while sporting three short white socks on her feet, the forth looking comically like a tube sock. In the center of her forehead, running to the tip of her little brown nose, a white stripe provides the perfect beacon of where to settle Bucky’s forehead when he can feel himself unraveling. 

And he must end up spending too much time looking at her because Gypsy’s ears perk up and her head does a signature tilt, the wordless communication they’ve shared for what feels like a lifetime to pull him out of daydreaming. 

_Let’s go._

Shaking off the remnants of sleep, Bucky yanks on some track pants and a sweater before padding out into the kitchen to the back door, Gypsy dutifully following. 

The smell of coffee permeates the air as he unlocks the door. 

His neighbors had been worried when he’d moved into the rental that there was no fence to contain Gypsy, but it only took Bucky a few strained conversations to make them understand if you don’t coo and kiss to my dog from the road, she will stay in my yard and not wander off. If you distract her, she will do just what you think. 

Most of the neighbors, elderly in age, were worried about their pristine, perfectly kept gardens, but Gypsy only relieved herself in a neighbor’s stone driveway one time, on moving day. Animal control was called and they let Bucky off with a warning. 

“There’s leash laws here in Massachusetts,” the officer had told him sternly. 

Bucky'd extended his left hand down to scratch at Gypsy’s scruff, making sure the officer and any nosy neighbors were able to clearly see his prosthetic in the sunlight. 

“I understand, Officer.” 

And that had been that. 

This morning the air was crisp. As Bucky takes a deep breath he can hear a couple of birds, but not much else. Many of the elderly residents in the area had left until April, taking off like true snowbirds for warmer climates down south. 

Which was fine by Bucky, he thinks, as Gypsy trots back into the house for breakfast. A quick scoop into her bowl and a pat on the head leaves her content as Bucky sets about his morning routine. 

Cup of coffee, brush the teeth, work the shoulder, attach the arm, put on daily outfit. 

But first, coffee. 

His eight-cup programmable coffee maker was the first thing he’d purchased when he’d moved in three years ago, it was the only thing that got him out of bed on mornings before Gypsy was a part of his life. 

Well, off the second-hand mattress shoved into the corner of his bedroom. 

But then, as if by divine intervention, he’d been selected for a service dog grant. In a flurry of activity over several weeks, he can’t really recall what the exact time frame was, Bucky was sitting in the living room of a local farm house among a litter of wide eyed puppies. He wasn’t totally sure where to begin until one puppy stumbled over his outstretched legs and eyed him with suspicion. He’d held her gaze, mesmerized by her stunning green eyes, and nearly jumped out of his skin when she howled at him and tried to skitter away, only to wind up tripping into his lap instead. 

“I think you’ve found your match.” The breeder murmured when Gypsy had let loose a wide yawn and settled into Bucky like that’s where she was meant to be from the start. 

More flurries of paperwork and aching weeks of waiting found Bucky worrying after a little creature he barely understood. At nine weeks old, Bucky picked Gypsy up from the farm and drove her three hours off Cape to a training facility, where he left her in the hands of strangers for another eight weeks. 

No amount of paperwork could have prepared him for that heartache, to have her for such a short amount of time only to give her away again. 

They sent photos, though, as well as training and progress videos. Bucky’s chest felt tight as he watched her learn, accomplish proper therapy dog skills and grow. Damn did she grow. 

Finally, another three hour drive and a weekend stay with his own training sessions, Bucky was handed a red vest, a leash, and told with more sincerity than he’d ever heard before: You’re ready. 

The rest, as they say, is history. 

 

Bucky leans against the kitchen counter, cradling his second cup of coffee in his hands - both real and artificial. Gypsy eyes him from where she’s sprawled between the kitchen and living room entryway. 

For lunch Bucky’s got leftover chicken pie - a staple he buys at least once a week from a local grocer - alongside white rice, which is about the only thing he’s confident in cooking. He knows how much money he could be saving by learning to cook, but the sheer thought of it task exhausts him. So for now, it’s ready-made chicken pies, stroganoffs, and pre-portioned hot foods with the occasional batch of veggies and rice. 

The pop of the toaster makes Gypsy’s ears perk up from her sprawled state: breakfast. 

Bucky smears some peanut butter on the english muffin fished from the toaster and wraps it in tin foil, letting Gypsy lick the spoon clean. He shoves the breakfast into a lunchbox, along with a banana, a granola bar and his leftover chicken pie with rice, before filling his travel mug with more coffee. He sets all his things by the door as Gypsy pads over with a shoe in her mouth. She plops it down for him before diligently retrieving the other. 

Bucky takes them each in turn and tips them upside down in his artificial hand; thumping hard with the heel of his flesh palm. But nothing falls out - nothing scaly, writhing, or eight-legged. He waits a moment, just to be sure nothing deadly has made a home in his shoes rather than the desert, before releasing a breath he’s always unaware he’s holding in. 

Gypsy shoves her snout under Bucky’s arm and begins to lick his face: come back. 

When Bucky blinks and his shoulders descend from near his ears, he’s back in his little house; scant but welcoming. Nothing has crawled into his shoes to kill him because he’s not over there any more. He’s right here, with Gypsy who’s got her working vest; waiting patiently before him as he shrugs on his jacket. 

_Let’s go to work._

\--

It’s a short, quiet commute in the grey of the winter morning. When Bucky arrives at the library at 8:30AM, he’s the first car in the lot. He doesn’t bother to hook Gypsy’s leash onto her vest; she trots happily beside him. He’s slung his backpack onto his artificial shoulder: a halting, hesitant moment once finishing the motion and a burden he carries too stiffly, but his PT had instructed him to start treating it more like his own limb, and he tries his best. Besides, there’s no one else in the lot if he drops it. 

He’s trying to balance his coffee tumbler and his keys in his right hand, Gypsy’s wagging tail thumping against his thigh when he hears the car pull into the driveway, but he knows the sound of Ms. Edna’s ancient Volvo station wagon and that’s not it. 

Instantly, sweat breaks out on his forehead: he’s stuck here at the base of the library steps, hands full, backpack strap biting into what’s left of his shoulder: he can feel it slipping. He hasn’t bothered with Gypsy’s leash - shit, what if it’s a police officer? The leash is stuffed into the side pocket of the backpack currently sliding off his shoulder. If it falls, the replacement hardware inside won’t do him any good. He’s supposed to install the new disk drive for computer 3 in the Children’s Section today - last week someone tried to stuff their bologna in it. 

Ms. Edna had been so proud of him. 

_“Oh, James, can you really just order a new one and it will be good as new?”_

Bucky hadn’t had the heart to tell her that the fix might not be that simple, but it was a decent place as any to start with once he got the new replacement. 

But the car pulling into the parking lot wasn’t Ms. Edna. 

Bucky tries to roll his shoulder to get his backpack strap back but the prosthetic is sluggish and doesn’t respond fast enough. The pack slips and he manages to stick his foot out in time to soften the impact. It’s a jarring sound on the cement steps and makes him wince, heat flushing his face. His right palm has started to sweat and he’s losing his grip on his coffee tumbler. His keys are jingling, shaking in his hand. Gypsy takes a step closer, ready to lean against Bucky and ground him before - 

“Bucky?” 

It’s a small voice, soft and familiar. 

No hostiles. 

Before he really knows it, a blaze of red hair has popped up beside him, clutching _The Yelpie Kelpie_ in a pair of sticky, smudgy hands. Wide green eyes look into his, concern and innocence he could never see anywhere else. He’s fumbling with his words, trying to get his jaw to unclench-

“James?” 

And there’s Sarah Rogers, hushing him instantly like some kind of divine guardian angel with clear, quiet words and movements clear as day. 

“James, I’m going to take your things from your right hand and unlock this door for you. Now, there we go, son. It’s a tough one this morning with all the fog, feels like it’s in your head instead of in the air, right?” 

Bucky hears her words and works hard to take them in, to make sense of them. Gypsy is nudging him forward. He hears the high-pitched electronic drone of the library’s alarm system, but after a moment it’s gone. 

Sarah must know the code. 

There’s the circulation desk, in the center of the room, but somehow every step feels like the thick, relentless sands of the desert. It’s all too heavy.

Now there’s a chair behind him and a gentle hand on his right shoulder. 

“Sit down, James, just here. No use in trying to make it all the way over to that desk, it’s still too early yet to open up. That’s good, sweetheart. Perfect.” 

Bucky’s sitting with Gypsy’s head in his lap in the middle of the library entrance when he finally stirs himself. 

Sarah Rogers is sat five yards away with Evangeline, her small voice carrying over to him the adventures of an Australian Kelpie exploring the outback. The rhythm is steady and humorous as she repeats the tale word-for-word. When Bucky raises a hand to rub at his eyes, Evangeline gives a faint squeal, before Sarah hushes her. 

Gypsy licks Bucky’s palms when he sets his hands back in his lap.

“James, I’ve got water or juice, if you’d like either.” Sara’s moved just a little closer. 

Bucky’s mouth is dry and his head is pounding. 

“Juice, please,” he knows it comes out fragile, but he can’t help it. He also knows that the juice will come in a Rubbermaid refillable plastic container with a straw. Barely three gulps, but enough to jump start him back into his own body. “Thank you,” he manages as he hands the empty plastic carton back with a shaky hand. “Sara, really, I never -” 

“James,” Sara’s voice is soft but firm, “my Joseph did a few tours back when war was something else entirely. Each time he’d come back and there would be less and less of his soul that made it back with him. I’d like to keep as much of yours as possible, love.” 

They’re odd words, but from Sara, they spring tears to Bucky’s eyes. 

“Oh, none of that!” she coos, and smiles wide, placing her hands on both his cheeks. He tries to nod, to fight down the lump in his throat and the swell of emotions in his chest. He’s minimally successful. 

“Here, Bucky,” little fingers extend a tissue, and Bucky takes it from Evangeline gratefully. “She’s such a good girl,” Bucky knows she’s talking about Gypsy - he’s overheard her and Sarah going over proper service dog etiquette almost every visit they make to the library: No touch, no talk, no eye contact.

“The best,” Bucky agrees, his voice a little wet. “Just like you two.” 

“That’s what Daddy says,” Evangeline giggles and her wild curls bounce around. “We’re his best girls!”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And that’s how two young war veterans find themselves bent over trays of mac and cheese and buffalo chicken nuggets watching the Great British Bake Off.

“Sir, I assure you, thE indicator light -” Natasha halts; glancing over her shoulder to Steve for the third time in the past minute. 

Steve points to his phone, trying to tell Nat that if she needs to pass along the call to him, she’s more than welcome. She only rolls her eyes, flapping her hand. 

“This indicator light,” she starts again, her voice calm and low, “is on an internal timer within the machine itself to alert you, the owner, of its need for yearly maintenance. Just like the oil light in your car.” 

Another moment of silence and then, 

“That’s correct, you called for service and we dispatched a technician to your home. We’ve billed you for the minimum charge to send out a technician. You refused this service from the technician at that time, so we’ve only billed you the minimum dispatch fee.” 

Steve’s line rings, then. 

“Good morning, _Archie’s_.” He greets smoothly into the receiver. On the other end is an older woman looking to have a salesman quote her for a replacement furnace. Steve ensures that he current unit is fully operational before taking her information and promising a call within 24 hours. 

He doesn’t hear Natasha approach until she’s right behind him. 

“It’s a conspiracy,” she murmurs. Steve nearly jumps out of his skin,

“What are you talking about?” 

“We - _Archie’s_ \- are in cahoots with the generator company to steal that guy’s money. Didn’t you didn’t know?” Her accent is thick and her words are dripping with sarcasm, “how _dare_ we show up at his home when asked and have the nerve to bill him for it!” 

Steve can only roll his eyes and shake his head. 

“What did you tell him?” He asks. 

“The truth,” Natasha says, “we’ve got a minimum dispatch charge and his generator was alerting him of maintenance that’s due but when we offered it he refused. He wasn’t pleased with that answer so I sent him to Scott’s voicemail.” 

Steve manages a small chuckle. 

Scott, the small company’s general manager, would probably tell said customer where to step off and a bold red note would appear in the computer system beside the customer’s information: DO NOT SERVICE. 

“He’s going to love that,” Steve rolls his eyes and takes a swig from his paper coffee cup. 

“Any fun weekend plans?” Natasha asks Steve, “Any dates?” 

“You know me,” Steve winks at her, “my dance card’s always full.” 

“Ugh,” Natasha rolls her eyes. “Steve, come on!” 

“Well it’s supposed to be in the negatives all weekend, and Eve’s been trying to get me to go to the library with her for weeks- so since we can’t make it an outside day that’s where we’ll go; at least tomorrow.”

“I swear I’ve never met a more outdoorsy child than yours, Steve Rogers.” Natasha wags a finger at him and Steve only shrugs. 

“Fresh air is good for them!” 

“Most little girls want to play Barbie video games and watch fairy princesses,” Natasha’s grinning now, “but your wants to run through the woods and build legos.” 

“There’s plenty of princesses in our home thank you very much,” Steve pipes up, “The past couple of Storytimes at the Library have all been _Narnia_ themed so Mom brought home the _Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe_ and we’ve been doing a chapter per night. Eve’s obsessed.” 

“We have those, back in my country. I read them back in school. They were okay.” 

“I rented the remake of the movie for Sunday, but only if we finish the book before then.” 

“You know, if you need me to take her for a night so that you can have time to yourself I’d be more than happy.”

“Thanks,” Steve’s back to rolling his eyes again. “How ‘bout this, as soon as I manage to find a date, you’ll be the first one to know. Okay?” 

“Fair.” Natasha concedes, a small smirk on her lips. 

\---

 

Ms. Edna sends Bucky home around 2 o’clock. 

“Honestly, love.” she chides, regarding him with the same kind, patient eyes as Sarah Rogers. “Gypsy’s been coming to alert me that you’re not all right for the past two hours. If any of the other libraries have computer issues, I’ll tell them you can get to it tomorrow. It’s February, for Christ’s sake! No one is going to be that busy.” 

So Bucky surrenders; shrugs on his coat and tries to ignore the tightening in his chest as Ms. Edna wraps his scarf around his neck; patting his cheek and making a “tsk,” noise. 

“You’re a good boy, James Barnes.” she reminds him. 

He feels his breath catch and he can’t look her in the eye. 

“And you,” She continues in a lighter voice. She’s looking down at Gypsy’s attentive face with a soft expression. “You’re the best girl.” Gypsy tilts her head and glances briefly at Ms. Edna before turning her attention back to Bucky, who heaves a sigh and tries to clear his throat. 

It’s even colder outside than it had been that morning when he makes his way to his car: a hand-me-down sedan that used to belong to his grandmother years ago. There’s apple juice stains on the cloth ceiling and something sticky lodged to the bottom of one if the cup holders, but it gets Bucky and Gypsy from point A to point B with only minor thunks and grinds, so he’s managed to keep it going. 

The drive home is mechanic and lulling, and by the time he’s pulling into the driveway, Bucky’s realized just how truly exhausted he is. 

He waits for Gypsy to relieve herself before trudging up to the front door, fumbling to unlock it and let himself inside. Once he crosses the threshold, the familiar sounds and smells of this house, his home envelop him and he’s able to toe off his shoes before collapsing on the couch. Instinctively, Gypsy curls up beside him. He’s got a couple of messages from friends; a missed call from his mother and a snapchat from his sister. 

He opens Rebecca’s snapchat fist, knowing from experience that it will reveal any possible motives behind his mother’s call. The photo is of Rebecca’s face, normally beautiful, screwed into an expression of mock distress: _SHE WANTS TO RAKE AT NANS THIS WEEKEND SAY YOULL WATCH KIDS WITH ME INSTEAD_ reads the snapchat. 

Bucky chuckles. Becca’s dark hair, so similar to his own, falls into her face comically and her brown eyes are closed tight in the snap. 

“What do you think, Gyps?” Bucky asks. Gypsy offers nothing in response except to snuggle closer and take a deep, relaxed breath. “Yeah,” Bucky agrees, “It would be nice to just relax.” 

He looks around the little rental house with its cream-colored walls and stark belongings. He’s been here almost a year and there’s still boxes lined up against the main living room wall: he keeps meaning to get a shelving unit to put all of his miscellaneous stuff on: books, DVDs, various gifts he’d received through the years and can’t seem to get rid of. Maybe he could go scouting for shelves this weekend. 

He opens his friends’ messages next. 

First there’s one from Clint, Bucky’s oldest and perhaps most familiar friend. They’d enlisted together once they’d turned 18, and though their experiences in the military left them with drastically different disabilities, they’d both returned to their hometown worse for wear with ghosts a plenty. 

BAD DAY 

Clint never uses punctuation, preferring to keep the last shred of formality that the military had installed in him to type like he’s sending a damn telegraph.   
At first it had bothered Bucky, but now with so much at stake, he’s grateful for Clint’s straightforward messages. Especially on bad days. The message is only twenty minutes old, so Bucky swiftly taps out a reply. 

_I’m home from work early, had an anxiety attack on the front steps of the library. Ms. Edna sent me home. You’re more than welcome to come over._

The response almost instant. 

AT MARKET ANY REQUESTS

And that’s how two young war veterans find themselves bent over trays of mac and cheese and buffalo chicken nuggets watching the _Great British Bake Off_. 

Bucky sits beside Clint with Gypsy at his feet, savoring the cheesy goodness as he swirls in some chucks of buffalo chicken. Gooey, crunchy, creamy, spicy; it’s a traditional meal that neither of them need to cook and always seems to help heal on bad days. 

They’re watching Bucky’s favorite season of the baking bhow; he knows the outcomes already but it doesn’t stop him from falling in love with all the contestants all over again and Clint doesn’t mind at all. 

_“Absolutely scrummy,”_ He hears Mary Berry exclaim. 

Clint taps his fork on the coffee table to get Bucky’s attention. When Bucky looks to him, Clint’s already started to sign and it takes Bucky’s brain an extra second to catch up. 

S-c-r-u-m-m-y. Clint grins as he flourishes the y and gestures to their spread on the coffee table: aside from the macaroni and the chicken, they’ve got a loaf of focaccia with dipping oil and a small cake that’s either oreo or hazelnut, Bucky can’t remember. He grins anyways and nods his fist to agree. 

It’s strange how natural it was for Bucky to learn to sign. He’d gotten the call from Clint’s sister that Clint was back in the states when Bucky himself was in rehab, learning how to pick up a toothbrush and wipe his ass without a left arm to balance him. 

She’d told him how a IED cost Clint his hearing, and even though he could speak, he’d become completely mute. Being in rehab, Bucky couldn’t get to Clint. But after he’d been accepted to the Stark program, he’d mentioned to the girl typing up his intake forms that he’d need to be able to sign with his left hand to communicate with a deaf veteran and Tony Stark himself had shown up at the next appointment with a cloud document full of ASL movements and information; promising Bucky that he’d do everything he could to make it happen.

He’d given Bucky a card and asked him to pass it along to Clint with the intention of making Clint the most technologically advanced hearing aids he possibly could. But the card still sits somewhere on Clint’s kitchen counter, probably in the mess of junk mail between the coffee machine and the cookie jar. 

Bucky had counted himself lucky at first: he could have lost his hearing, like Clint, or a leg, or his sight, _or been completely blown apart from the blast like the others-_

Gypsy’s chin settles on Bucky’s knee and he comes to with his hands in the air, Clint regarding him with that look on his face. 

A quick shake of the head and a couple of blinks and he heaves a breath, back in the present. 

_Really?_ Clint signs. He’s smiling now that the moment has passed. 

_Baked goods and you think of tour? Ridiculous. I join your unit next time, maybe I’ll come back fatter!_

A chortle knocks its way out of Bucky’s throat despite the morbidity of the thought and he strokes the soft fur on top of Gypsy’s head. 

_We gotta get out more._ He offers to Clint, knocking him with his left shoulder. It’s a movement that would have drowned him in anxiety a couple of years ago, but now it’s as natural as anything else. 

_I get out!_ Clint exclaims, hands waving rapidly and smacking together in exclamation. He points accusingly at Bucky. _You say no whenever I invite you out!_

_Where you go it’s too loud!_ Bucky huffs as he complains, hands . 

_Earplugs. Wimp._ For a moment Clint chuckles silently, the familiar quick shrug of his shoulders and shake of his head. Then, his face sobers for a moment. _When’d you last go on a date?_ He asks. 

Bucky can’t help but wave his hand dismissively. _Forget it._

Clint sets his food down on the coffee table so quickly it frightens Bucky, but Gypsy licks his fingers and leans harder against him. It’s just Clint. But Clint doesn’t even seem to notice. 

_Look,_ he demands, waving an index and middle finger back and forth between them. Bucky angles his body in response: shoulders squared with Clint’s. _You’re stupid,_ Clint continues, _you think this house and the library are safe and you’re right. But you need something else. You want a family!_ His hands smack together and his eyes widen to make his point. 

Bucky repeats the sign pitifully. 

_Family._

_No pity, asshole._ Clint smacks his left arm. 

That was the agreement they’d made when they both left rehab. 

Bucky sighs again. 

_You. Date._ Clint drives home his point. _Now._

Bucky signs back with a heavy sigh. _I’ll try._

And Clint knows a promise when he sees one. A thumbs up and they’re back to indulgent, heart-healing meal with fluffy entertainment. 

Clint’ll text Bucky every day to remind him about the date, but Bucky doesn’t mind. 

Sometimes you need the push.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s the faint sound of tinkling metal, a collective gasp from the mothers and a few squeals from the kids. Then, as Steve grasps the collar of his coat and turn, still hunched over, he comes face-to-face with a wet nose and a pair of wide brown eyes. 
> 
> “That’s my daddy, Gypsy girl,” he hears Eve coo gently. “He’s a good daddy, you know.” She’s stroking the dog’s perked-up ears as those brown canine eyes track his movements warily. The vest that Evangeline had spent the entire car ride lecturing Steve about is nowhere to be seen. Her tail, brown save for the very end which resembles a little white flag, wags rhythmically behind her. 
> 
> “Eve won’t you introduce our guest?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> featuring the most amazing art by the most amazing @ohstars who deserves all the awards for staying with us through the craziness that was a Big Bang process over the holiday season.

Steve tugs at his sweater self-consciously. He knows how all the mothers at the library talk about him. 

Sarah comes home from every story hour with what feels like a novella of gossip, and there’s no doubt in Steve’s mind that she’s powerless not to share what goes on in their little home, too. 

“Jeanette says that her sister’s husband is in the Army just like your wife, you know- she could be a real support to you, sweetheart.” 

So because of all that, he tries to avoid the library. But Sarah had insisted he attend Story Hour with them this weekend. So he’d gotten all the grocery shopping done extra early that morning and settled for half his regular three-mile run. 

As they walk up the steps of the local library, Evangeline is tugging him along and he’s only half listening to her

“...really important to do ‘no touch, no talk, no eye contact,’ but sometimes Bucky takes off her vest and we can play with her a litte.”

“Who?” Steve asks, shaking himself. 

“ _Gypsy._ ” Evangeline rolls her eyes and tugs harder on Steve’s hand. “Daddy you’re not _listening_!” 

“No, no I am!” Steve fibs, tries to salvage the situation before it really even begins. From memory, he recites the general info he’s stashed away about Story Hour guy, _Bucky_. 

“Gypsy is Bucky’s service dog and she helps him do things so that’s why she’s allowed in the library, but we can’t play with her because she’s a working dog.” 

“Bucky is like Grandpa Joseph,” Evangeline rolls her eyes again and abandons holding Steve’s hand in favor of Sara’s. 

As soon as the words leave her mouth, it’s like a ton of bricks have hit Steve square in the chest, stopping him in his trek up the stairs. 

Evangeline had never met her grandfather; in fact he’d passed away when Steve was still fairly young and he’d be lying if he said he could remember his father perfectly. He remembers the red truck, idling in the garage when he and Sarah came home from a Saturday soccer practice spent warming the bench - his father hadn’t been feeling well and had opted to stay home, which was why it seemed strange to an eight-year-old Steve that he’d gone and started the truck. 

_“Mom,” he’d said to her as the automatic garage door creaked open, “Dad always says to never idle the cars in a closed garage…”_

_He’d looked over at her to see her face pinched and watch her drag in a deep breath._

_“Go next door for me, dear, and ask Mrs. Lang if she’s got any pepper, will you love?”_

_“What?”_

_“Steven, please!” Her tone was sharp. But Steve hadn’t missed the way it wavered; how her hands shook as she struggled to undo her seatbelt. So, he reached over and did it for her._

_“Okay mom.”_

He’d find out later that day sending Steve to the Lang’s to ask for such a common place item had been a code to phone for emergency services; something that Mrs. Lang and Sarah had devised in the hopes of sparing their two young sons from too much trauma. 

But even the best intentions couldn’t compete against a war-torn mind. Steve Rogers was eight years old when he first learned he words _Depression_ and _PTSD_. 

 

“Nana, maybe Grandpa Joseph needed a dog like Gypsy.” 

“Wh-” Steve stammered, stumbling to catch up with them.

“Perhaps, love,” Sarah simply agrees and pulls Evangeline against her side, squeezing her briefly. “You’re such a smart girl.” 

She lets Evangeline skip through the doors of the library and Steve touches her arm, 

“Mom-” 

“No, Steven,” Sarah shakes her head. “Not now,” Her tone is scolding. “You let her be. We had a morning with James earlier this week- she’s smarter than you think when it comes to these things.” 

“But Mom, she’s four years old!” 

“Oh, hush, she’ll be five in just a couple of months, she’s as good as!” 

“Mom, you can’t just-“ 

“ _Hush_ , Steven.” That sharp tone slices through Steve’s next words and he closes his mouth. “You pick us up in an hour or come inside with us now; decide.” 

Admittedly, Steve considers it. But he can see the frustration and his mother's face and thinks better of it. He huffs out a breath and squares his shoulders instead, nervous about what lies behind the library doors. He’s heard stories about these women, some he was probably never meant to hear. He’s had good enough reason to keep his distance for so long. 

Sarah goes in ahead of him; he can hear the chatter and sounds of mothers and children sitting somewhere nearby, but all of that stops when Steve crosses the threshold. The murmurs die down and all eyes turn to him for far longer than he’d like. 

There’s a circle of about seven mothers and after a split second he tries desperately to avoid eye contact with any of them. 

They’re all dressed so similarly. 

Steve instantly regrets throwing on his old slacks from yesterday and a sweater that he’d found balled up at the back of his closet. It had smelled clean enough back at the house, but now he can feel their beady little judgemental eyes crawling over the ruffled creases of his clothes. 

“Ladies, this is my son; Steven!” Sarah beams as she beckons him closer to the group, and Steve is vividly reminded of that old NatGeo article about wolf packs and newcomer rituals. 

“Hi all.” He greets them simply and holds out a hand. 

None of them shake it, really, but one at a time they come up and sort of...hold it. Pat it, maybe, he’s not sure. But it’s some sort of too-gentle gesture that leaves a bad taste in his mouth. 

One by one, they come up and touch his outstretched hand with smiles much too wide and outfits far too polished. 

Sara, Jane - or was her name simply Sara-Jane? Leah, Anne, Adeline, Barbara, Michelle (or Rachel, Steve wasn’t certain), and a couple of others he’s already forgotten, introduce themselves while gesturing vaguely to the group of children gathered round the library’s fish tank, telling him the names of their children. 

Steve just nods along to the ritual and smiled until his cheeks hurt, listening to each one in turn as if he were on the phone at work. Polite, compliant, understanding- the _customer service facade._

“It’s nice to finally come by with mom and Eve,” he agrees when one of them say something that he thinks might have been ‘sure took you long enough!’

The ladies cluck and chitter happily at the generic and polite response, some breaking off to carry on their conversations while Sarah tugs Steve’s arm towards the sitting area. 

It’s a quaint little circle of pillows, small and colorfully worn floor pillows arranged together, all facing a comfortable looking barcalounger. No one was seated in the story telling throne, but it was nearly time, meaning the story telling king, Bucky, would soon be arriving. 

After noticing the larger adult sized chairs seated behind the little pillow rows Sarah was guiding him to, Steve felt some relief. He could sit on tiny floor pillows, but it definitely wasn’t the preferred seating arrangement for those with long legs. 

“Louanne was telling me about her son Jeremy's elementary school in Yarmouth-” His mother began amicably, Steve frowning as he tried to remember which one Louanne was. Wasn’t it Leah and Anne? Weren’t they two completely different people? 

His eyes caught Evangeline as she came over with a bright blue book in her hands, decorated in pastel fish. 

“Nana, this one has fish like in the tank.” With her little fingers she set the book on Sara’s lap - a NatGeo Kids reference guide - “Is it a story or for learning?” She continued. Sarah thumbed through the volume, regarding the diagrams, expertly drawn habitats and educational tidbits, Steve leaning a little closer to take a look himself. 

“It looks like it’s mostly for learning, Love.” She explains to Eve, “I don’t believe there’s a story in here but if you want we could learn about the fish and then make up a story if you’d like to.” 

It takes Eve a long moment, eyeing the bright cover of the book warily. She starts to chew at her lip. 

“I’ll tell you what,” Sarah reasons, “how about Daddy hangs onto the book during storytime and we can think about it. We don’t have to decide right now.” 

Eve nods and Steve can tell that she’s grateful for his mother’s quick thinking. It’s only when Steve reaches out to take the book from his mother that Eve seems to remember that he’s there at all, looking up to him with surprise. 

He’s suddenly hit with the intimate knowledge that he’s disrupted their routine - and the routine of everyone around him - with his desire to not feel so left out of his own child’s life. He tries desperately to clear his throat. 

“Can I see? Is there fish?” He manages in a whisper. Pathetic. But, he’s just aware of how the clamor and noises have started to tone down. A quick glance at the clock puts them just about ready for Story Time.

Eve leans heavily against his legs and puts the book in his lap, pointing to all the different Dorys and Nemos, giving oddly specific facts about their coral homes in the Great Barrier Reef. Steve listens intently trying to focus on his daughter instead of how all the mothers are scrutinizing and watching their every interaction. He’s both too hot and very itchy all at once. He makes to shrug off his coat and hang it on the chair. Of course, he drops the damn thing, Eve stepping back from her spot in his lap. Cheeks burning, he stands to his feet, only to crouch down to retrieve the coat. He’s certain he hears his mother’s distinct chuckle. 

There are some noises that happen all at once, then, as Steve has his back to the main Story Time area trying to wrestle his coat back onto his chair. 

There’s the faint sound of tinkling metal, a collective gasp from the mothers and a few squeals from the kids. Then, as Steve grasps the collar of his coat and turn, still hunched over, he comes face-to-face with a wet nose and a pair of wide brown eyes. 

“That’s my daddy, Gypsy girl,” he hears Eve coo gently. “He’s a good daddy, you know.” She’s stroking the dog’s perked-up ears as those brown canine eyes track his movements warily. The vest that Evangeline had spent the entire car ride lecturing Steve about is nowhere to be seen. Her tail, brown save for the very end which resembles a little white flag, wags rhythmically behind her. 

“Eve won’t you introduce our guest?” 

The voice - masculine, gentle, soothing - sends a shiver down Steve’s spine and he finds his gaze snapping up to meet a pair of steely blue eyes across the room. Dear Lord.


	5. Chapter 5

Bucky watches the guy from where he sits in the back office, stretched out so precariously in the swivel chair that Gypsy’s abandoned her usual spot beneath his desk to stand beside him. 

The guy’s wearing _khakis_ , for Christ’s sake, but he fills them out so perfectly that Bucky’s left praying one of the mothers will call him over so he can get another view of the guy’s ass. 

His dorito-like shoulder-to-waist ratio has Bucky wondering how many hours the guy’s spent at the gym. He’s got his hair slicked back and he’s wearing shoes that aren’t sneakers; decent signs of fair game, as far as Bucky’s concerned. And he can’t see if the guy’s wearing a ring from this distance, so. Potential. 

Bucky then notices the pool of drool gathering at the corner of his mouth just as a flash of bouncy red curls rushes up to the guy in question, and he immediately groans out loud. 

That tangle of red hair is Eve, which means that _this_ guy must be the infamous _Steve_. 

“Something the matter, dear?” 

Bucky nearly tips himself out of his chair, startled by Sarah Rogers as she stands in his view of her son, her arms crossed over her chest and a worried frown on her face. 

“Sarah…” Bucky sits back up, looks from Sarah Rogers to Steve Rogers to Evangeline Rogers, and all of a sudden the familial resemblance is uncanny. How’d he missed that? “Wha-“

“I just wanted to check on you. How are you, Love?” Sarah explains gently. She makes no moves to come closer into the office. 

“Oh.” is all the response that Bucky can muster. “Uh, better, thank you.” 

“All right, Dear.” Sarah flashes that smile which, for just a moment, makes Bucky feel like he’s still somebody. She pats the door jamb before padding away. Bucky watches her sidle up to Steve across the room, who’s squatted down chatting to Evangeline. 

Bucky feels his face flush. 

_This_ is the successful accountant son that Sarah always gushes over: strong, smart- hurt over Evangeline’s mother’s decision to pursue a career rather than settle in a sleepy tourist town to raise a family. 

In this day and age, Bucky doesn’t blame her for it, even if it’s his own ultimate personal goal. 

After dueling with several conflicting thoughts of how he feels about the new and severely annoying situation, Bucky musters up the courage to slip Gypsy’s vest off. 

She never wears it for Story Hour, preferring to sit among the children. Bucky doesn’t mind; he’s seen over the months while he’s running Story Hour how Gypsy slips into caretaker mode with the children, some more than others: Evangeline no exception. 

Bucky knows Evangeline’s mother is military, and that fact alone was a driving factor in deciding to let Gypsy ‘off the clock’ during Story Hour, especially after a particularly difficult library visit for Evangeline. Since then, Gypsy’s steady and quiet intuitions have brought many a smile to Evangeline as well as all the other children. 

When he finally makes his way out to the group, he can’t help how the sight of Evangeline and Gypsy tugs at his heartstrings. That wild red hair and her gentle manner with Gypsy have often sparked a longing for a family in Bucky. As he makes his way into the center of the room to sit among the pillows, he’s reminded of Clint’s demands the previous night; signing to him with force. _Family. Date._

Now, though, Bucky’s distracted by the sight of Steve Rogers’ ass sticking out from behind a chair as he fumbled around with something. Sarah is watching just as Bucky was: bemused. 

Bucky feels his cheeks heat and he thinks maybe he’d asked Evangeline or Sarah to introduce Steve to the group; he can’t be sure - has to sit down before the wave of overwhelming thoughts barreling into his brain knock him over. 

He’d never stand a chance with a guy like Steve: clearly established, well dressed, functioning family, and probably straight judging by the beautiful daughter he took part in creating. 

Single parents - even with Sarah playing a major part in Eve’s upbringing - always come with baggage. 

Not that Bucky himself is without baggage; his is simply _clinically diagnosed_ baggage. 

Not to mention the fact that Steve is an absolute _specimen of perfection_. 

Tall, broad, symmetrical- when some of the mothers wear heels to story hour they’re taller than Bucky.  
5’ 9” was impressive back in the seventh grade and definitely useful for concealing himself as a sniper- not super desirable in the dating scene, though. 

Oh, God, the _dating scene_. Loud, exhausting, too much smalltalk. 

Bucky feels a shiver run through his body that pulls him back into the present. 

He clears his throat and manages to focus on the task at hand: C.S Lewis’ _The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe_. He’d done the first chapter over the summer and Evangeline had taken to it so much that he’d promised himself he’d do another soon. 

\---

Story time goes about as good as it could have. He doesn’t stammer over every other word and Bucky is only somewhat distracted by the stupid supermodel dad at the back of the room. 

He’d wanted to hate Steve: this dad with seemingly no time for his kid or family, who’s never bothered to show up before- but just watching him sit at the back of the circle with Eve on his knees and Gypsy slowly wagging her tail next to them, Bucky couldn’t. 

There was his smalltown dream, sitting a mere fifteen feet away. The thought made his throat feel tight. 

Steve would lean down to Evangeline and they’d whisper a every few minutes; it looked like Steve was having Evangeline explain details of the story to him. Absently, he even began to stroke Gypsy’s ears, and Bucky’s Betrayal Dog leaned all her weight against Steve’s leg as if to confirm just how screwed Bucky truly was. 

After an hour of trying his damnedest to stay focused on the art of storytelling, Bucky stands to stretch his legs and roll his shoulder, stiff from holding the book in place for so long. All of the ‘regulars’ have grown accustomed to his prosthetic, and he’s grateful that it no longer draws attention. He only has to prepare himself to ask questions in the summer months, when the tourist families bring their children. But, he only runs one story hour per month in the summer for this exact reason. 

And he doesn’t realize Steve Rogers is approaching him until he’s right beside him, distracting him from stretching. 

“Hi,” Steve’s voice is strained. 

“Hello,” Bucky offers slowly. 

He doesn’t miss the way that Steve’s eyes are darting about; how he’s wringing his hands and rocking from foot to foot: anxious. 

Bucky wants to tell the guy to just go home. 

He wants to push him and tell him that he should loosen up and get a job closer to his fuckin’ kid so he can spend more time with her. He wants to tell him to stop coming to story hour because it makes Bucky nervous to have Adonis listen to him retell the adventures of the Pevensie kids. He wonders if Steve even knows that the Narnia books are Evangeline’s favorite: a weird choice for a four-year old but something that made Bucky grin like a fool for days. How does the world manage pure kids like this? Steve can’t know, with all the hours that he spends at work, how amazing Evangeline is. Sarah had said that he works 10-hour days at the office. Surely living with Sarah he can afford to work a little bit less- who in the world would ever want to be away from such a perfect family for so long?

Bucky realizes he’s staring a bit too hard at Steve, because Steve’s eyes start to grow wider and he finally takes that much needed step back. He’s still wringing his hands. 

Bucky makes an effort to soften his gaze before words start to tumble out of Steve’s mouth. 

“Look, I know this might be a little forward of me, but I was wondering if you’d mind - uh- getting coffee, or - or something.” Steve takes a big breath. “Uh, with me.” He tacks it on the end like it wasn’t obvious. 

All of Bucky’s will goes towards not rolling his eyes. 

“Thursday?” Bucky offers simply, almost instantly. His mouth is dry and he can smell Steve’s cologne. “Ten A.M?” 

Steve will probably have to be in the city long before then. There’s no way he could-

“Perfect!” The grin on Steve’s face is so wide and joyous that Bucky can feel his own mouth turning up. His stomach flips when he realizes Steve had agreed. 

Fuck. 

“If you live around here you gotta know Sam’s!” 

Bucky can only nod in response. 

Of course he knows Sam’s; it’s the best coffee place besides Starbucks and it’s ten minutes closer to his house, only five from the library; Bucky’s ritual Sunday treat. 

Plus, they’ve got biscuits in a bowl at the counter for customers’ dogs and the owner, Sam, always has a piece of bacon for Gypsy when they come in. Another former vet with a good head on his shoulders and a knack for comfort food, Sam had clicked his tongue against his teeth the first time Bucky had entered the shop years ago: ragged, discouraged and rattled at the smallest things. “We all seem to flock together somehow,” Sam had commented, nodding to Bucky’s dog tags.

Of fucking course he knows Sam’s. 

“Great! Sam’s at 10am on Thursday- see you then!” 

“I-” But before Bucky can say anything else, Steve had already dashed away. Bucky can hear the blood rushing in his ears as he fumbles for his phone in his back pocket. He can see Clint’s face as he types out the message: 

_I think I have a date with one of the dads from Story Hour. Thursday at 10am; coffee at Sam’s._

MYSTERIOUS STEVE? 

Bucky immediately curses himself, turning away to go back to the office. Of course Clint knows about Steve; Bucky’s only mentioned him any time that Sarah and Evangeline come up. ‘The one with the military mom and the workaholic dad.’

Curse his detailed work recounts. 

_Yes._ Bucky confesses. Then, clicks through a thought: _I said Thursday at 10am cause I thought he worked in the city??_

STEVE ROGERS WORKS WITH NAT AT ARCHIES YOU IDIOT

Bucky groans out loud in his empty office, because if Steve works with Natasha - Clint’s fiance - that means that he, too, works only five minutes from Sam’s. 

That, and everything Bucky’d assumed about Steve is apparently very, very wrong. 

Also, Bucky is _fucked._


	6. Chapter 6

“Eve, won’t you introduce our guest?” 

Steve’s heart seems to lurch into his throat and his hands instantly turn clammy. Too bad he’s already set his coat on the back of his chair - he could have used it to hide his white knuckled fists. He’s vaguely aware of his mother’s gaze on him as Eve, still petting Gypsy with one hand, reaches out and pats his bicep. 

“This is my daddy; Steve,” She addresses the group. Then she moves to take Gypsy’s face in both her hands and murmur something soothing to her, not aware of adult social queues and how nervous said Steve was. 

“Welcome, Steve. We’re glad to have you here for Story Hour.” 

_That’s_ Bucky. A sure, solid guy in a black hooded sweatshirt and some dark-wash jeans. His hair was cropped short, one of his shoulders straining the fabric of his sweater more than the other and Steve could see the prosthetic now, eyes snapping back up almost immediately. 

Completely at ease, he looks at Steve with an expression that cuts straight through him. There’s no smile, and Steve can just make out the slight crease in his brow. He’s seen that expression before, years ago when his father would meet new people; it’s the exact same look: a soldier assessing. 

Steve feels his mouth moving but he’s not sure what comes out of it. 

Now everyone is looking at him. 

The mothers chuckle collectively. 

Bucky’s eyes narrow and the line of his brow deepens. 

It’s all Steve can do to keep his gaze steady until Bucky’s face changes to something more calm and collected, motioning to the book in his hand: _The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe._

Steve’s phone dings in his pocket and he knows without even looking at it that it’s Peggy’s alert: the same every two weeks. 

$1,000 USD transferred from the Bank of London into their joint account. 

Steve’s shoulders slump. 

Instead of paying attention to the alert, his eyes stay on Bucky, determined. 

Bucky’s voice is gentle, the cadence easy to follow. Steve’s not sure if he’s reading specifically from a children’s version of the classic tale or if he’s modifying it on the fly. Either way, both mothers and children alike seem enthralled with the small changes. 

The sunlight pours through the windows and rests on Bucky’s chestnut hair, just untidy enough to seem like it was done on purpose and Steve finds his fingers itching to reach out for it. 

Lulled into a daydream state by the sound of Bucky’s voice and the warmth of the sunlight coming in from the windows, Steve finds his mind wandering. 

He knows the money from Peggy will remain untouched in their account, like so much of it has. At Peggy’s request, he’d allowed her to invest a large chunk that remained untouched for years. They both hope somehow it will grow to be enough to send Evangeline to college. 

Peggy visits for three weeks every summer, to spend time with Evangeline during the height of the tourist season. It’s so Sarah doesn’t have to brave the congested roads that make her so anxious and so Steve can work a bit later each day to account for the flux of seasonal customers whose AC never seems to operate correctly.

It’s an odd routine, Peggy’s, and that she can’t ever expand more details about her job other than “... very important work for the world,” and in the past has irked Steve to no end. 

But her insurance pays for anything Eve ever needs and the influx of money means that Steve doesn’t have to worry about emergencies or tough holidays. 

This is how it’s been since Eve was six months old: Peggy’s generous maternity leave ended and she’d gotten a bit teary-eyed bidding them goodbye. Ever since, they touch base every Sunday night first with Eve chattering about anything and everything, and then alone with one another after Eve’s bid them goodnight.

At first Steve had begged Peggy to come back, to be a proper family. He’d bought a ring and tried to propose, but she’d just clicked her tongue and given him that sad, proud smile. 

“I can’t marry you, Love.” she’d confessed gently, “You know that well as I do.” 

And Steve did; he’d always known it. But each week during their talks his heart had broken a bit more for years and years, until one night, Peggy asked him about dating. 

Through the following weeks, she’d coached him through various apps which all ended in disaster, psyched him up for social singles nights which made his skin crawl and demanded that he make a list of top priorities for potential partners to have. 

In those weeks, he went from pining over Peggy’s love and commitment to cherishing her friendship instead. 

Returning back to the present, when a wet tongue licks his fingers, Steve blinks his focus back to Bucky. 

Maybe. 

Just maybe. 

There’s a tap on his leg, and he snaps his eyes up to meet his mother’s. 

_She knows._

It’s the same look she’d had the day he’d announced Peggy’s pregnancy. Completely expectant and utterly amused. 

Sarah Raises an eyebrow and tilts her head toward Bucky. A wordless, supportive, totally unforgiving, _go on. It’s okay._

Steve gulps. His knee starts bouncing as he wracks his brain for something he could possibly say to Bucky. What was it that Peggy always offered as a safe, non-committal date? Good for one a drink or two depending on how well the first hour goes? Coffee- that was it. 

Eve giggles at something Bucky says during his retelling and Steve can’t help but glance down at her. Wild, jovial and empathetic beyond her years, Steve feels his heart clench. 

Of course Eve liked Bucky, but could she like him enough for this? The mere thought of a made his palms sweat.

By default, Steve always assumed that dating would mean even less time with Eve, though as he watched Bucky’s brows climb high onto his forehead and his expression become animated amidst his dramatic retelling, Steve felt a glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, Bucky would already know this father and daughter came as a package deal. 

Coffee, though, they’d start with just coffee. If he even said yes.

Steve tried to think of what day could possibly work best. Leaving the house at 6:30am every day of the week didn’t leave too much time in the mornings, and saturdays were devoted Eve time; he didn’t want to start going on dates in the middle of Sara’s day off from responsibility - that hardly seemed fair. 

With his workday ending at 4 most days, Steve made a point to be home with Eve for dinner and nightly routine. By the time she crawled into bed around 8 Steve was almost always ready to crawl right in next to her. Then he’d start all over again. 

All of this, admittedly, left a sliver of a window somewhere in the jumbled landscape of Sunday. 

How on earth could someone ever take him seriously with only a measly bit of Sunday to offer?

“Thursday, 10am,”Bucky says clearly, suddenly standing right in front of him and oh God it’s happening when did he start speaking? 

But it’s actually the perfect time: a couple of hours taken out of his workweek on his slowest day - just what Peggy and Natasha have been pleading with him to do. He basically worked through his lunches anyway, taking a break Thursday morning would be fine. The girls will be thrilled when he tells them, and if it doesn’t work out then he’s only lost a couple of hours at the most. 

Steve can feel his smile stretching his cheeks and he’s suddenly in front of Bucky blabbering on about going for coffee and Steve’s pretty sure that Bucky’s just as lost as he is but he didn’t say no and it’s happening.

His palms are sweating and his hands are shaking, but when Eve takes his arm a moment later and waves goodbye to Bucky from the library doors where she’d dragged her father, Steve’s stomach lurches at the soft smile that manages to surface on Bucky’s face. He feels hopeful. 

Thursday.10am. Coffee. Bucky. 

A _date_.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What a process. This started out as a huge idea with twists and turns and quarrels and more symbolism than you could shake a stick at, but with it occurring over the holidays and some unexpected events that no one has been able to shake, we boiled it down to a sweet, fluffy thing that hopefully proves that everyone's recovery is different; that sometimes its the smallest things that help us to hold on.
> 
> Immeasurable thanks to our ever-patient Beta Reader @Pineapple5snake & our inspired artist @ohstars.

Bucky gets to Sam’s at nine-thirty exactly so he and Gypsy can walk the perimeter twice. 

Bucky knows Sam can see him from inside the shop; knows that he doesn’t need to walk the perimeter to secure it, convincing himself that it’s just for Gypsy to stretch her legs before she has to curl up beneath one of the little tables in the coffee shop for who knows how long.

The February air is dry, cold, and crisp - it helps him stay focused. 

The noise of the cars zipping by reminds him that his steps land him on brittle, dead grass instead of sand in the desert. Three years discharged has allowed him to work through a great number of struggles the war had left him with, but by far the toughest thing to get past has been the strange, nagging emptiness that clings to his chest and his joints, the thing that fogs up his brain. 

It lingers now, as he casts his eyes skywards and Gypsy leans against his leg.

Years of training and countless hours of peering through a scope left him with the ability to overthink, and once he was left without the scope of the gun, his gaze shifted inwards and the battle field turned into a hospital and the rehab center. Therapy, both mental and physical, exhausted him.It left no room to even process the possibility of relationships so he’d ignored the topic entirely, no matter how many times his inpatient therapists attempted to explore it. With only one arm and enough trauma to fell an elephant, he’d vowed that he wouldn’t step foot into the dating world until he could recognize his own reflection first. 

But turns out, the dating world just intervened and asked him out for coffee anyway. 

Bucky had been playing it over in his mind all week: the nervous way that Steve had approached him and the stupid enthusiasm he’d had when accepting what was possibly the worst time for a date. 

_You tried to push him away but he didn’t let you,_ Clint grinned at him the night after Story Hour. _Do you think your therapist paid him to ask you out?_

That was met with a throw pillow to the face and Natasha’s melodious cackling, brazen and motherly, who’d helped him plan out an outfit several days in advance and ran him through the various redundancies of dating smalltalk. They especially practiced Bucky’s response to the dreaded tell me about yourself about six times before it started to feel authentic, and, proudly, he only felt like passing out twice 

But then, of course, there is the issue of Evangeline. 

As Bucky watches a flock of birds dip and glide through the air outside of the cafe, he forced himself to take a deep, even breath. Steve already had one child, he doesn’t need the responsibility of a trauma-ridden amputee POW. 

This morning, he just needs someone to drink a cup of coffee with. 

By the time he’s settled himself into a table at the back of the room, back to the wall, it’s nearly 10am. And although his palms are sweating around the paper cup, holding his overly sweetened beverage in somewhat shaky hands, the strangling fog in his mind has mostly dissipated. 

When Steve walks through the front door, Bucky’s in his own skin enough to actually grin at him, and the honest words that Natasha had encouraged him to start with pour out of his mouth before Steve’s even made it to the table. 

“I’m pretty nervous right now,” He admits quite honestly. He ticks of the reasons on his right hand and feels Gypsy lean against him beneath the table. Her heavy weight and soft fur comfort him as it always has. “Mostly about taking you away from Evangeline. I know you work a lot and probably don’t spend a lot of time with her and I don't want to get in the middle of your responsibilities as a parent.”

He expects pity, maybe that sad look old ladies give him when they spy his prosthetic or dog tags. 

Instead, he gets a genuine laugh that lights up Steve’s face and shakes some tension from his stupidly broad shoulders. 

“Then you’re gonna love this,” and Steve takes something out of his back pocket and sets it down on the table in front of Bucky, and all at once there’s an open door to the possibility of a family life he’s always yearned for. 

On the page is a rendition of Steve holding Evangeline’s hand, her trademark hair curly and wild. But, holding onto Eve’s other hand, is Bucky. He’s grinning wide as Gypsy trots along at the end of her leash in the lead. 

Something yanks hard at Bucky’s heartstrings and he can feel his shoulders drop from where they’d bunched up. 

The next words out of Steve’s mouth leave him a little breathless.

“Mom drew it and Eve colored it. Apparently, my four year old understands quite clearly when you ask someone on a date that they’re bound to become a very important part of your life. So, I think we’re okay with you invading our lives.” 

“Holy shit.” is all Bucky can manage, with a clumsy shake of his head and shaky smile. 

The fog has cleared and Bucky Barnes is on a date with Steve Rogers.


End file.
